


I Have Decided to Fall Silent

by Rerun_Nachbild



Category: Star Trek: A Stitch in Time by Andy Robinson, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Domestic, Erotica, Gentle Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rerun_Nachbild/pseuds/Rerun_Nachbild
Summary: A speculation of the intimate relationship between Elim Garak and Kelas Parmak.Title was inspired this poem of Nizar Kabbani:“Because my love for youIs higher than words,I have decided to fall silent.”
Relationships: Elim Garak/Kelas Parmak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	I Have Decided to Fall Silent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JDylah_da_Kyllah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kyllah/gifts).



> For my friend who, incidentally, crafted me a splendid Parmak doll. (Yay!) Thank you for, as always, for your kindness to me!

Garak trails a hands over the faces of the Edosian orchids. Within a breath, a finger or two tingles with pain like pinny insects’ feet. He allows the arthritic fire to dull, chuckling to himself. How much his hands have weeded, plucked, patted, stitched, gathered, gripped, hoisted, broken, manipulated and maneuvered, all in his service over the past fifty-some years. How much he has done.

“Don’t get sentimental, Elim,” he mutters into the mist of the hothouse. Humidity hinders his breathing. A thought flees toward the house. “At least, not on your own.”

He leaves the orchids in their hot house. Succulents in stone beds greet him. The moss of rosy and sunny hues carpets his bare feet. This is a secret, domestic pleasure. None of his aides or colleagues would ever see him with bare feet! No. Only Parmak. Parmak, the soft moss around his sharp-crag heart. Parmak, his bedding soil. The glass walls keeping away the White Star of Night that would turn him back to a poison.

Parmak is watching for him when he enters their home. “Tolan would be proud of how well they are growing.” He says and Garak instinctively tucks away the pleasure of that remark, like a blossom pressed in a book, to be preserved and appreciated later.

Instead, he says, “I may remind you, dear Doctor, that you cannot assert as much. You didn’t know Tolan.” His smile is pleasant, mischievous, and full, matching his days here.

“Very well,” Parmak concedes. He is washing some instruments of his— medichemicist vials and such. His attention must be devoted to the delicate glass. Garak moves along his path, toward the study where his books and his bonded-one’s PADDs are kept. But, Parmak’s voice follows. “ _I_ am pleased by them, though.”

And Garak says nothing in return— wishes to say nothing— because only Parmak can render him so sweetly silent.

* * *

  
Parmak adjusts the Rigelian-cotton quilt around them. He nestles himself where Garak’s body bows. The night will be tranquil, he thinks, then closes his eyes. Garak rests against him. Tranquility, dearly bought, and not idly appreciated, is theirs here.

The quilt has a traditional wedding pattern: interlocking fingers— or vines, but he prefers to think they are fingers. The metaphor is a less tired one than vines. And, after all, he takes joy when their fingers enlace, at the dinner table or when passing in the hallway. Or— as now, beneath the wedding quilt.

Such warmth, there. Such tenderness. Together, at night or on those rare, delicious days when they end up lying entwined, dazzled by their arousal for each other— Not bad for their age. Parmak smiles despite himself. 

Behind him, Garak asks, “Something amusing you, my dear?” A touch along his smile-mounded cheek. A trail over his lips.

They both are at times as frail as the flesh of a five-petal. At times, they frivol youthfully. Now, Parmak seals Garak’s hand at his lips in a kiss. He says, “Nothing, dear,” as Garak shifts still closer.

* * *

Garak paints Parmak’s flesh with his tongue, as he speaks. He’s reciting— of all things— Earth poetry:

> _“I hadn’t told them about you_
> 
> _But they saw you bathing in my eyes.”_

with his mouth _so_ _close_. And— “Would you enjoy a bath, my dear, within my eyes?”— flirtatious asides. Because Garak cannot allow the conversation to unfurl in a straight line. Not this early in their lovemaking.

Parmak considers the proposition— bathing in those thistle-blue meres. No longer are they cold or steely. They are a call home.

His lids bat once, slowly. He _does_ wish for Elim’s affection to imbibe him. Is this greedy of him? Ah, but, greed is swallowed in the gulf of generosity. At his side, his lover patiently waits while he undresses, saying not a word.

* * *

Gasping, Garak gazes at the form before him. Not for its beauty, though Parmak _is_ beautiful to him, in that he is Kelas Parmak— but for the _familiarity_. The vulnerability. The intimacy.

As promised, he washes Parmak with looks brimful of love. He is very attentive. Every centimeter of his lover caressed, every member of him fondly invited to join Garak’s own counterpart. He says nothing aloud, not now; he doesn’t want to risk simplifying the expression of his love with mere words.

Tenderly, he traces the rotund ridge of Parmak’s belly, winding his way along the thigh— with reverence, over the still-soft cock lying lank, for Parmak is rarely stiff unassisted these days. Nevertheless, Garak has learned what pleasure lies there— bespoken, though it is, with a quieter language. 

He’s learned to speak back.

He ends the path at Parmak’s testicles, gingerly sliding a finger down the seam of his scrotum. Parmak sighs and Garak watches the skin contract with joyous relish. Cleverly, carefully, he begins to massage the sac. Whimpers flee from Parmak’s lips. _Whimpers_ but his lover doesn’t offer any words.

* * *

Parmak rubs his jaw against Garak’s neck, stimulating the large nerves beneath the plating. A ground out “ _nnn_ ” escapes Garak, over the sounds of their coupling. Garak’s pressing cock rocks, trapped in the groove on the inside of Parmak’s hip. They are slick with sweat and musk, beneath their wedding quilt. The scent is _exhilarating._

Even in his euphoric rhythm-making, Garak is mindful of his weight on Parmak’s semi-erect cock. The strokes of Garak’s flanks against him are light and full and fit him like the Rigelian cotton. He eases himself up, offering to take over the friction-work and allow Garak to rest his knees.

Lying atop his lover, Parmak feels the healer in him arise. Garak’s cheeks are burnished by exertion. Not that he seems to have any complaints! 

Still, Parmak caresses the blushing cheeks, then begins to move in slow, earnest motions. He sees his dear Elim moving his lips silently, speaking a panted tongue only he ever hears. He smiles knowingly.

* * *

  
Finally, Garak’s resolve is broken. He rises to his elbows and kisses what he can reach— Parmak’s chest, the trailing divot over his heart, his nipples… Finally his voice squeezes sentiment into words. He is desperate to voice them— to _try_. He drops “dear Kelas, dear Kelas” over Parmak’s ribs in kisses like dew. In answer, Parmak says only: “Elim, _Elim_.”

**Author's Note:**

> The other poem, which Garak recites to Parmak (what a flair for the romantic!) is also by Qabbani:
> 
> “ I did not tell them about you  
> But they saw you bathing in my eyes  
> I hadn't told them about you,  
> But they saw you in my written words.  
> The perfume of love cannot be concealed.“


End file.
